Grandmother is so very old; she has so many wrinkles, and her
hair is completely white, but her eyes shine just like two stars;
yes, yet they are much more beautiful; they are so gentle, so
wonderful to look into. And then she knows the most delightful
stories, and she has a gown of heavy, rustling silk, with great
big flowers in it. Grandmother knows a great deal, for she was
alive long before father and mother-that much is certain! She has
a hymnbook with heavy clasps of silver, and often reads from it.
In the middle of the book is a rose, which is very flat and dry,
and not nearly so lovely as the roses she has in the vase, yet
she smiles at it the most sweetly of all, and the tears even come
into her eyes. Why is it that Grandmother looks that way at the
withered flower in the old book? Do you know? Why, every time her
tears fall upon the rose its colors become fresh again; the rose
swells and fills the whole room with its perfume; the walls sink
as if they were made of mist, and all about her is the green,
beautiful wood, with the summer sunlight streaming through the
leaves of the trees. And Grandmother-why, she's young
again, a lovely girl with yellow curls and round red cheeks,
pretty, graceful, fresher than any rose. But the eyes, the mild,
blessed eyes, they are still Grandmother's eyes. Beside her
is a man, so young, strong, and handsome; he hands her a rose,
and she smiles. Grandmother cannot smile like that now. Yes, the
smile is coming back now! He has gone, and with him many other
thoughts and forms of the past; the handsome man has gone, and
only the rose lies in the hymnbook, and Grandmother-yes, she
still sits there, an old woman, glancing down at the withered
rose in her book.

Now Grandmother is dead. She was sitting in her armchair,
telling a long, long lovely story. "And now the story is
finished," she said. "I am very tired. Let me sleep a little."
And then she leaned back, breathed gently, and slept. But it
became quieter and quieter, as her face became full of happiness
and peace. It was as if the sunshine spread over her features;
and then they said she was dead.

She was laid in the black coffin, and lay shrouded in folds
of white linen, looking so beautiful, though her eyes were
closed. All the wrinkles were gone, and there was a smile on her
lips; her hair was so silvery and so venerable, and one
wasn't at all afraid to look at the corpse, for it was
sweet, dear, good Grandmother. The hymnbook was placed under her
head, as she had wished, and the rose was still in the old book;
and then they buried Grandmother.

They planted a rose tree on the grave beside the churchyard
wall. It was full of roses, and the nightingale sang over it; and
in the church the organ pealed forth the finest psalms, psalms
that were written in the book under the dead one's head.
And the moon shone down on the grave, but the dead one
wasn't there. Any child could venture safely, even at
night, and pluck a rose there beside the churchyard wall. A dead
person knows more than all we living ones know. The dead know
what terror would sweep over us if the strange thing were to
happen that they should return among us. The dead are better than
we; and they return no more. Dust has been piled over the coffin;
dust is inside it; the leaves of the hymnbook are dust; and the
rose, with all its memories, is asleep. But above bloom fresh
roses, the nightingale sings, the organ peals, and we think of
the old Grandmother with the gentle, eternally young eyes. Eyes
can never die. Ours will some time behold Grandmother again, as
young and beautiful as when for the first time she kissed the
fresh red rose which is now dust in her grave.